AN OUT-OF-WORK'S LAST WORDS

NZ Truth, Issue 87, 16 February 1907, Page 7

AN OUT-OF-WORK'S LAST WORDS

: -• Deceased had been out of work for Mie past six months. He had seemed very: depressed of late, and o n coming Home one night; after another fruitless quest' for work, he took a drink from a bottle , containing carbolic acid, threw the bottle O n the floor, said "Good night, and God bleas you," to his wife and children, went upstairs,; fell with a heavy thud on the. chamber. floor ; and when medical aid arrived, life was already found to be .extinct. The jury returned a verdict of "Suicide ' while of unsound mind. "—London . daily paper. , 0 England,* dear; my country, , With all thy smiling land, With all thy soulless sordid wealth, Thy- t>alaces so grand, Thou'rt ,but a hell to such as I— ; - I ha-fce fhee irom my-isouF ; f £ f-- -■'' ' ;;V - : >- My. blood be on thy shameless head, Arid on thy fame's dark scroll ! Within thy gates, 0 England ! What deeds of shame are seen ; What woe! what crime! what wretpn- , edness ! Where glory should have been ! . For some must die for want of work, And some are worked to death ! 1 curse thee ! curse thee England ! Though with my dying breath ! Week m, week out, I tramped thy* . streets, . Thy heaths and hedgerow'd lanes; Almost with teairs I begged for work— "My labor for my pains." r • The sky was : brass, the earth was flint, Ashamed, I hung my head ; Despised, disconsolate, and lone, I sought my- daily, bread. Not mine alone ! Ab.,.no! N6t mine! For that I could have borne 1 ! But. oh Kio see, the jsfife^and babes ) With pangs pf hunger tdrn ! To see the cheerless, empty grate, ; ■«. The "bits of sticks" all sold ; 'Twas that which drove me mad, And made me hate a world so cold. Month after lnon-th flew oieriny head, 'Twas still the same old tale : 1 'No ! ' '. "No ! " ' 'No ! " "No !V. wher- . e'er I went, Till hope began to fail. At last I thought I had a chance— I .went— again too late ! I'll go no morer-I'll end it all— A slave ,oi ruthless fate ! For this— for this, 0 England, I curse, thee to thy face ! »No friend art thbu to me and mine— A starving luckless race ! And oh ! dear partners of my woe— I'm broken-hearted quite— I bid you now a long farewell : God bless you— and— good night !